The Sword Remembers
by Lady Rane
Summary: It is said that swords hold part of the souls of their weilder...not the standard reincarnation fic.
1. An Unexpected Delivery

1 

  
  


Katie 

  
  
It is said that the sword holds the soul of the warrior who owns it, and that even after the soul passes on, moves forward into reincarnation and future lives, some piece of the warrior will remain with the blade. If the warrior were particularly strong some piece of him would linger with that sword forever, coloring the destiny of the blade even after it passes on to other wielders. This is where cursed swords come from...but also blessed swords, and enchanted swords.   
  
And yet the tale I bring before you opens in a time and place that has all but forgotten swords. In a country called America, year 2004. America has all but forgotten souls, as well, though most of her proud and free spirited people at least pay lip service to one of the faiths that attempts to tell what happens, one way or the other, to souls. It has forgotten, too, things like magic and honor and blood. And in this country and time, a man or woman can go their entire lives without ever knowing whether or not they are a coward.   
  
And yet one should not judge this country too harshly. Its children are free spirited and energetic, creative and resourceful. The soul of the country, as it were, holds itself to high ideals, even though the hands of the country often dirty themselves. Countries, you see, are very like men. Conflicted. Noble and ugly at the same time. Lacking understanding of their own nature.   
  
Ah, but you are kind to indulge me. I had forgotten, Gentle Reader, that we are past the time when one is supposed to address the Reader at all, or wax philosophical when there are stories to get to. If you have indulged me, I thank you, and will get on with the telling of the tale.   
  
It was autumn. The wind blew harsh and cold across the streets of Williamsburg, Virginia, sending cascades of red and gold, orange and brown, twisting and twirling in slow lazy ballets to the streets and sidewalks below. The skies promised rain, heavy and pregnant with billowing grey clouds, and the air was moist and chill with that promise, but none had yet come. Most of the tourists who came to this small city to immerse themselves, however briefly, in the memories of their nation, had gone home.   
  
Tourists were not a major issue in the Akabedo Shopping Center, though it was only two miles from Colonial Williamsburg. The Akabedo was named for the owners, who also maintained a fairly successful Japanese restaurant of the same name in one of the spaces. The others were taken up by the Kamiya Ryu dojo, Shane's Antiques, and Crystal Memories, a quaint New Age store that sold trendy coffees and teas along with crystals and incense. Of the four of them, Shane's saw the least amount of business, but the store struggled by year after year just the same.   
  
Katie Kamiya arrived every day at 4:00 p.m. She slipped off her shoes as she fumbled her keys. She was an athletic brunette with rather huge brown eyes. Blonde highlights kissed her ponytail; the Kamiya line had intermarried rather far afield of their Japanese origins. Katie was usually singing some rock song or another, though her voice was ill-equipped for it; she was a cheerful young lady.   
  
Today, though, her songs were cut short by a rare sight. A delivery truck was parked in front of the shopping center, and Kenneth Shane was out arguing with the delivery man.   
  
The fact that he was arguing was what made Katie stop; Kenneth was one of the most amiable men she'd ever met. He was handsome as well, so the excuse to stop and look did not go at all amiss. He was half an inch shorter than her, but compact and well fit. He didn't own a car, which was what had done it; he walked to and from work every day. Katie had tried to entice him to come try martial arts, but he had demurred. Kenneth didn't care for violence, and even when she explained that her art was about defending others above all, he had simply smiled and stated that was what police were for. He had a shock of bright red hair, left long in front to hang a bit in his face but cut short in the back. He was always impeccably dressed, as well; today it was a nice blue turtleneck and black slacks. She also enjoyed his little hint of Irish accent. He was born American, but Shane's parents had naturalized, and he still bore the pepper of their speech on his tongue.   
  
"I don't sell swords, sir." Kenneth was explaining. "It's mostly furniture. You know. Chairs. Tables. Wardrobes." The man had always, in Katie's experience, been unfailingly polite, no matter what the circumstances.   
  
The delivery boy was bored. "I was told to deliver it here. What do you care? Says here it's paid for."   
  
"Well, sir, I refuse to sign for the package. I can't even sell that, it's not authentic."   
  
The sword in question, Katie saw, was housed in a very intricate wooden case with a glass top. It was resting on a bed of black velvet. Japanese, she saw, though she couldn't have said what era. And there was something funny about it, though Katie couldn't put her finger on it. Her art had been born in swords, she knew, but nobody went around with swords in modern America, so Katie didn't spend a lot of time on them. Back in the 40s Kamiya Ryu had changed its focus a bit, deciding that being as effective as possible in the pursuit of defending others was more important than the tools the art had begun in. She taught her students to use whatever was to hand, or their hands if there was nothing; that they themselves were swords that protected others.   
  
"You don't have to sign." The delivery boy said, and he thrust the case at Kenneth. Kenneth was forced to take it or let it drop. He chose to take it, just a hint of annoyance playing about his dark blue eyes.   
  
He let out a sigh as the delivery boy left, and Katie walked over to him. "You can put it on your mantle," she suggested. "Someone will buy it."   
  
Kenneth shook his head. "I won't price it," he said. "If it was authentic I guess I would just because I could use the money." He gave her a little grin, which she returned. Neither martial arts schools nor antique stores were exactly money makers; both of Katie and Kenneth had other, part-time jobs that helped them pay the rent. "But see? The blade is on the wrong side of the sword. Everything is pretty consistent on it for it to have been forged, oh, late Tokugawa or so, maybe early Meiji, but...you'd have had to be pretty foolish to forge a sword like that, or wear one, that you would have. It was a bloody time."   
  
There was something about that sword that stirred something in Katie though. "I don't think it's silly," she said at last. "It would have been someone who wanted to defend others without doing harm." She paused as a word floated into her mind, unbidden. "Sakabato."   
  
"Oh, is there a word for it?" He smiled at her. He had a lovely disarming smile. She really wished he'd pick up on all her hints and ask her out, but whenever she flirted too much Kenneth merely blushed and let out this little sound. It was an adorable sound, but hard to capture. The closest I can come, Gentle Reader, is something like "oro." "I'd forgotten, Miss Katie, that your style was built on such things. Would you like the sword? How did you call it again? Sockbat?"   
  
It seemed wrong to her, to take it, like it really belonged with him, but she also sensed an opportunity. She beamed at him. "I might be persuaded to take it off your hands, since I know how you feel about weapons. If you could be persuaded to come have dinner with me tonight."   
  
It was the first time she'd ever come out and asked him. She'd always been afraid of the brush off, he was a little older and she couldn't tell if he could read her about her earlier advances, and was simply politely ignoring them, or whether he really was oblivious. It was the sight of the reverse blade sword that prompted her to find out once and for all. Something about it gave her courage.   
  
He blushed as scarlet as his hair. "Ahhh...you want to have dinner with me?"   
  
"That's what I said."   
  
He gave her that wonderful smile again. "I'd be honored, Miss Katie." He held out the box for her.   
  
She took it, but said, "Oh, and you have to quit calling me Miss Katie. We're on a first name basis and this isn't 1890 or something, ok?" She was pretty sure that was around the time of the Old West, the only time she could think of where men drenched women in "Miss" and "Ma'am".   
  
He mimed tipping a hat at her, winking. "After your classes then."   
  
"After my classes," she agreed, and opened the trunk of her car to place the reverse blade sword carefully inside. She'd bring it home with her, she decided, rather than leave it on display at her school. Her first students were arriving, so she gave him a cheerful wave, pretended like she didn't want to jump up and down and squeal like a little girl, (she had a date with him at last!) and finally got the door to her school unlocked.   
  
** Author Notes: ** Nope, don't own Kenshin & Co. 


	2. Offering

2 

  
  


Thomas 

  
  
The bulk of the black cathedral had been reduced to little more than a burnt out husk. Here and there the most significant bones that had made up the structure's skeleton still remained mostly in-tact, though tumbled all atop one another like dying men, blackened and cracked. There was glass in plenty, and some stone.   
  
Yet the basement remained, and an entrance to that basement. It was there that two men stood. The long, thin cigarette of the first man cut through the darkness like a tiny beacon. It would point outward as it took its turn in his mouth, and then make a slow, graceful arc down to point at the floor. The man who held the cigarette had, as it's said, a "lean and hungry look." Tall. Thin. Powerfully built. He wore a suit and somehow that suit did not seem out of place in the dust and char. His features were sharp. Well defined. His eyes: a shade of brown that appeared amber, or perhaps yellow. Midnight hair, slicked back from the skull. It should have appeared greasy. It did not.   
  
A larger light cut a more hyperactive path through the air. This was a true flashlight, now, a big sturdy MagLite that could easily serve as a weapon if no other apparatus were available. The kid who sent that light in quick, broad strikes across the room looked no more than 19 or 20. His brown locks were a mess of waves and curls, tilting wildly about his head. He had an easy going air about him, a practiced way of moving that screamed that he didn't care about much of anything, and, in the act of screaming it, let any astute watcher know that he did, in fact, care very much. He wore jeans. He wore a black t-shirt advertising the punk band, Bad Religion. He hummed the lyrics to one of their songs as he sent the light around and around the room.   
  
_ If you stand to reason, you're in the game. The rules may be elusive but the pieces are the same. And you know if one goes down they all go down as well. The balance is precarious as anyone can tell. This world's going to hell! Don't allow this mythologic hopeful monster to exact its price. Kyoto Now! We can't do nothing hoping someone else will make it right. _   
  
The first man hated the band but knew the words well enough. It kept the younger man quieter, if he was allowed to play his own CDs in the car. And at least the song the kid was fixated on was one of the less irritating ones; the one that, ironically summed up the first man's outlook, more or less, though he had a less longwinded way of stating that someone had to get up off their ass and do something about the pernicious beasts that stalked the world. _Destroy evil. Instantly. _ What more needed to be said?   
  
The man in the suit was Thomas Wolf. The simple minded would call him a demon hunter. Or, perhaps, a magician. He had a little magic, but he rather preferred the hunter's title. Mostly, Wolf identified with the animal that shared his name, and let other titles fall away. He did what he did. People who tried to put a name on it had watched too many movies.   
  
The second man was his associate. Apprentice, if you will, or partner, if you will, or perhaps, as Wolf mostly thought of him, simply the annoying boy who followed him around and might actually grow to be useful someday. And for about a year, since his battle with the demon Astiroth, Wolf knew that Nick Sanos had always been like that, or at least had been like that in the last life they'd both lived.   
  
Thinking that, in and of itself, was call for a fresh cigarette. Wolf let the butt of the first fall to the ground like a dying butterfly, the second already leaping to his fingers, the lighter out, the fire summoned, the drag taken. The first cigarette ended its meager life beneath Wolf's heel.   
  
Why had Astiroth awoken the knowledge of his past lives? Why make that his final action, his parting spell before Wolf had sprung the trap?   
  
Wolf had never taken much of an interest in his previous incarnations. They were previous. Done with. Souls made choices. Souls learned things. Souls moved on.   
  
Thomas Wolf, 1969 to present. Saitoh Hajime, Tokugawa to Meiji Era, Japan (exact date uncertain, though Wolf knew he could find it in a history book if he really wanted to, Hajime was not an unknown figure). Lord William of Hathaway, sometime during the ninth century, or perhaps the tenth. Other names, other lives, stretching on, older still, into times where men didn't keep dates at all, into cultures that he couldn't recognize because they were never recorded by any historian. He'd always identified with the Wolf though. The Wolf of Mibu. His standard, as Hathaway, had been a wolf. Some native life had prayed to the Wolf-god as his totem. It pleased him that he now bore the name in this life.   
  
Hajime had known Nick Sanos. Had known him as Sanosuke. Wolf wondered what choice Nick had made, to decide to be incarnated so close to him once more. What Nick was trying to learn.   
  
The black cathedral had not been a real cathedral at all. Before it had burnt down a year ago (largely with Wolf's help), it had been called St. Belal's House of Mercy. The name alone had been a large indicator that something was wrong; there was not, to Wolf's knowledge, any St. Belal in the Catholic line-up.   
  
His initial tour had nearly steered him away from the trail though. It had been cathedral shaped, but it had been stuffed full with books. Books of the old and yellowed and esoteric variety to be certain. Some fiction, mostly of authors who showed uncanny insight into the hellish underbelly of reality: the Lovecrafts, Kings, and Bradbury's of the world. But books just the same. No acolytes chanting hellish hymns to dark powers or sacrificing small children. Instead he'd found librarians, faithfully cataloguing the faint dust of worlds and powers.   
  
Wolf took a moment to vaguely regret that fire. The loss of the books was rather a calamity.   
  
Astiroth had been at the library's helm, though; the arch-demon who considered himself a scholar. He'd been preparing to do something with Time, or perhaps to Time. Wolf could not even begin to fathom the disaster that a demon having true command over Time would hold. Demons seemed to come in all shape and size and ability, with all manner of agendas, so many that he'd never been able to really pin down who they were or what they wanted. But he'd never met a demon yet with anything but the worst of intentions for humankind. That was what had started Wolf on his road years ago. He'd learned how many human miseries were caused by these entities, by this silent, unseen war. He had no care for that which his race brought down upon itself. But he ruthlessly rooted out what was caused by this Other against whom most had absolutely no defense. Perhaps, without their meddling (or was it war, after all?) humans could at last get about the quest of resolving the dark and the light within their own souls.   
  
Here, in the basement of St. Belal's burnt husk, were four pillars, inscribed with all manner of runes and inscriptions, most of which Wolf actually couldn't read. A faint buzzing field whisked between the pillars. They were impossible to pass through. The pillars had been central to Astiroth's work. They were now his prison. Wolf was not good enough to destroy an arch-demon. Wolf was not sure any one human, or even a group of humans, was that good. No matter that Astiroth had chosen to appear as a tall, skinny blonde man with wire rimmed glasses and a glass jaw to match. So instead of trying to destroy Astiroth, Wolf had trapped him in his own pillars, phased a few seconds just outside of Time.   
  
And as his last act in reality, Astiroth had reached inside of Wolf's mind, calling forth all those other lives to sift through them, to know them. The scholar-demon used his last free moments to become a PhD in the subject of Thomas Wolf's soul. It bothered Wolf. The action had made no sense, even if it had been painful, disorienting, even if it had sent him stumbling into an oil lamp, breaking it, sending its flames to engulf the cathedral and destroy all within, nearly taking Wolf with it.   
  
Astiroth had his followers. Traitors to the human race, but dangerous. Astiroth should not have been able to communicate with them. Homage would be useless, and the ruin was not particularly stable. They knew that. Yet Wolf had a hunch, a hunch that brought him back here a year later. Wolf listened to his hunches. They were a part of the small magics he claimed.   
  
He'd had a hunch that someone had bridged the gap. Someone had come. Someone had walked away, perhaps with instructions. He needed confirmation.   
  
While he mused, Nick Sanos found the confirmation. He held up a blackened husk of a book and frowned. "Hey, Boss? Check this out."   
  
A burnt book in a burnt library shouldn't have been much concern, but Wolf waved his hand at Sanos, letting him know to bring it over. Sanos had opened the book up, carefully, to the publication page. He put the light over the page. Wolf picked up on it immediately.   
  
Publication year: 2004. That year. Which meant that it had hardly been part of the original holdings of a library that had burned in 2003.   
  
"Why burn it?" Nick complained. "I thought Astiroth liked books."   
  
"He does." Wolf considered the book, the problem that it represented. He had to fall back on legends, mythology, the twisted logic of magicians everywhere. He came to his answer: "The smoke of the fire rose and thus the knowledge held by the book was carried to Astiroth. It was an offering. Symbolic, though. No need to reduce it to ash. Leave a fragment of the book on earth and form a connection. A point between worlds. One of Astiroth's followers is very smart. He got some instructions from his master." He thumbed the pages, ignoring the ash and char that came off on his hands. As best he could tell, it was a physics textbook, telling of some of science's most recent developments in that area. Yes, Astiroth would have liked that. Magic and modern physics were intertwined...and much of modern physics was all about Time.   
  
Absently, Wolf rubbed the strange flittering ache in his chest. That had been there ever since he'd imprisoned Astiroth, though what it was or what connection it had to the problem it had he could not say. The ache did grow stronger here, though, mere inches away from the pillars.   
  
"Maybe we can get some fingerprints off of it," Wolf told Sanos. He dropped the second cigarette butt. This one he crushed out between thumb and forefinger, letting it burn and stain his fingers. He started walking, up the rickety staircase, gingerly across glass and debris, out to his car, an unassuming black sedan. There was nothing more to be found here.   
  
** Author's Notes: ** So this fic is a little bit out on a limb. I know many AU/Modern day fics are big on keeping the exact same name and appearances. But that never made sense to me as if someone reincarnates, they're not going to look or talk or have the same name's as their old lives...and the fact that they don't, after all, comes into play. Doesn't seem like this fic is getting a lot of readers yet, but I always like to acknowledge those who review me. With that in mind:   
  
Chibi Banasu-chan: Thanks! I tried for a little extra length this time. =>   
  



	3. Reflex

Kenneth

  
  


3 

  
  
The date had, in Kenneth's opinion, gone very well. He felt like he'd known Katie at least a hundred years, maybe more. He couldn't get enough of the way her eyes sparkled. It was rare to see anyone so cheerful; most people in this day and age seemed to complain as much as they felt they could get away with. Not Katie, who seemed instead to look for things to laugh about.   
  
She'd insisted on driving him home, which he'd found cute and exasperating at the same time. Katie felt it was a dangerous world and even walking home alone at night in a safe neighborhood was asking for trouble, especially if you weren't a martial arts master like she was. Kenneth had the feeling he'd just acquired himself a new nightly escort home, but he didn't really mind.   
  
The lights in the apartment were on when he got there. Kenneth breathed a sigh of relief. Rickie, his younger brother, had come home, then, and apparently stayed there, rather than go out and get himself into trouble. Rickie was a good kid at heart, but since their parents had died he'd gone a little wild. Shoplifting was his vice of choice, and Kenneth had been greeted by the sight of the cops, his brother between them, more than once. At least the police brought him home. Kenneth had made sure to make their situation clear. He was only twenty three; trying to raise a thirteen year old younger brother alone was not easy.   
  
His brother nearly bowled him over when he came home. "Where have you been? I've been waiting all day to show you my report card!"   
  
"Oro," Kenneth murmured. Rickie's hug had come complete with something very like a headbutt to the gut. "Your report card?"   
  
"Look! 3 Bs!"   
  
That _was_ an improvement! When Rickie had first moved in a semester ago he'd been failing all his classes. Come to think of it Rickie had been home more, usually locked in his room. Kenneth had assumed he'd just been reading his comics. Kenneth beamed. "We should do something to celebrate."   
  
Rickie grinned and stuck his report card on the fridge. He'd always wanted approval.   
  
The brothers didn't look a lot alike. Kenneth had gotten his mother's coloring and build. Rickie was already tall for his age, though, and would probably tower over Kenneth given a few more growth spurts. He'd also inherited their father's darker coloring. His hair was black, spiky, and had a tendency to become a real mess if not cut short.   
  
"Where'd you go?" Rickie demanded again.   
  
Kenneth cleared his throat. "I went on a date." Rickie grinned. He was always bugging Kenneth to find dates. "Who?"   
  
"The martial arts instructor who works next door to my shop."   
  
"She's kinda ugly." Rickie grinned though. "Does this mean you'll let me go take her classes now though?"   
  
Kenneth sighed. They'd talked about this and talked about this. Ever since Rickie had learned there was a dojo next door to Kenneth's shop he'd been constant in his requests to go train there. Kenneth had nearly folded on a number of occasions -- if nothing else it might keep Rickie from getting into trouble. But his innate dislike of violence had stopped him every time. There were police for protection. There was running away and turning the other cheek. Bloodshed only brought more bloodshed, and fighting only invited more fights. Even if one did not ever kill, even if protecting others and self was the only goal, violence birthed a small dark beast inside of the soul, and that beast became hungry and demanded to get out. Kenneth didn't know how he knew that, but he knew. He knew he wanted a peaceful life, a quiet life. If Katie didn't have that enchanting smile, he wasn't even sure he'd be able to live with what she did.   
  
"C'mon, Kenneth, I got better grades," Rickie whined. At thirteen he still had an excellent whine, a weapon of self-preservation that the boy had honed to a razor fine point. "You said we should celebrate."   
  
"I was thinking we could go to some baseball games, that I was." Kenneth said. He reached into his wallet, and withdrew the surprise he'd bought for Rickie months ago, just in case his brother did do better.   
  
"Season tickets!" Rickie crowed, the dojo forgotten momentarily. "Bro, you're the best!"   
  
Kenneth grinned at him and said, "Alright. First game is Saturday. Now I need to get the laundry done, so bring down what's in your room, ok?"   
  
Rickie ran off to go get his clothes. Kenneth began gathering those from his room. The apartment did not come with a washer and dryer, but it did have a common laundry room not too far from the actual apartment building. If one did not babysit the clothes one tended to find them, usually damp, strewn all over the room, the victims of some other resident who was in a hurry. So Kenneth had learned to bring a book and have a seat on whichever appliance he was using, staying put until he was done. Kenneth didn't mind. It was somewhat relaxing.   
  
He was working his way through a book on Civil War silver patterns. There were a few sets that he was thinking of acquiring for his shop, as he'd had several members of the Junior League stop by and ask about them. He'd promised the ladies he'd find something for them within three weeks, but he was going to have to brush up if he was to be absolutely certain about what he bought and tried to pass on to them. There was a lot of fakery and trickery in the world of antiques; Kenneth prided himself on the fact that he took the time to verify every single piece that came through his door. He prided himself on learning a little about the stories behind each of them too, so that he could talk to his clients about them. He collected Rickie's clothes. Rickie was already deeply immersed in a video game (some snowboarding game, Kenneth was relieved to see).   
  
He got the laundry started. He had a brief, nostalgic moment. The days before washing machines must have seemed far less hectic; laundry would have taken time. Arms would need to be plunged deep into soapy water and scraped against wash racks as one let the sun warm one's back. Kenneth often had these moments, not just about laundry. Modern technology sometimes made him feel a little adrift, but he supposed it was because he spent so much time around the old things.   
  
He did a little leap, twisted midair, and got himself firmly seated on the washing machine. It was a small conceit, a quick joy in the fact that he'd managed to stay fit. Nothing he'd do in front of anyone else; he was certain such tricks looked ridiculous when a grown man pulled them off.   
  
Not long after that, Gentle Reader, Kenneth Shane did something he'd never done before. He fell asleep, right there in the laundry room, the gentle motions of the washer rocking him to sleep with his book still open on his lap. Do you suppose that his sushi dinner with Katie Kamiya tired him so? Or was there, perhaps, some sinister magic behind this anomaly? It is ever so hard to tell, with magic. Magic is coincidence, wrapped up in happenstance, wrapped up in enigma which tiptoes quietly across your spine, laughing ever so softly when your neck hairs rise in alarmed response.   
  
What I can say, for certain, is that Kenneth Shane had a dream.   
  
_   
  
The man was unassuming.   
  
He was a towering stork, gaunt, tall, but somehow oddly handsome. He seemed to smile almost constantly, and if the smile held a bit of bitterness, it held, as well, a touch of magnetism. His nose was as patrician as his stance. Soft blonde locks, curling ever so slightly, touched his forehead. He wore wire rimmed glasses. White turtleneck, black suit jacket, blue jeans.   
  
All he did was watch Kenneth. Kenneth found that a little curious. He found his clothing curious as well. He looked down, his historian's mind filing away the details: brown hakama pants, blue gi, tabi socks, sandals. The ghost of a katana, one that was longer than those traditionally carried by samurai, but lighter and quicker just the same. An excellent weapon for an assassin. Kenneth frowned the sword away. He did not want it.   
  
Still the strange man watched, his smile going wider by a notch.   
  
"These don't fit me anymore." Kenneth said, sternly. He could never recall wearing anything like it, so he was unsure why he said "anymore," but it was, after all, a dream. He willed the clothes away, turned them into something he could live with: cream colored Dockers slacks, brown loafers, one of his favorite turtlenecks, which had been red once but had turned something very close to pink (but was so comfortable all the same that Kenneth couldn't bring himself to quit wearing it).   
  
"No," the man agreed, speaking for the first time. The watcher had a very ordinary voice. It was almost too high to be taken seriously, but Kenneth shivered just the same, aware on some level that to fail to take it seriously would be a very deadly mistake. "But they will."   
  
The man struck a single match and held it high. The smile never wavered as the match fell. It hit stone. It went out.   
  
When Kenneth burst into flames, he screamed.   
  
_   
  
He awoke with wide eyes and sweat drenched skin, knocking the book to the cold linoleum of the laundry room floor as he bolted upright.   
  
The washer was done.   
  
Kenneth slid slowly off of the machine and transferred the clothes over to the dryer. He picked up his book and laid it on top of the dryer, staring at the intricate silver spoon that graced the volume's cover.   
  
He did not sit on this machine. He'd never had a dream so vivid before, so real; most of his dreams were confused and jumbled. His dreams had always been pretty standard, as well: he'd had the dreams of flying and falling, being naked on the bus and being late for important meetings. When he had nightmares, he had nightmares of car accidents, like the ones that had killed his parents. He'd certainly never changed anything in a dream, or woke up in a cold sweat from one.   
  
Sudden impulse made him push one of his sleeves up.   
  
His skin was very pink, as if he'd scalded himself. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he whispered.   
  
He let his sleeve drop. Maybe he'd just better check on Rickie. That was it. Kenneth would check on Rickie, verify that everything was alright, and then come back for their clothing. He left the book; maybe someone would realize he was only gone for a moment or so and he'd be lucky enough to find all the clothes back in the dryer.   
  
The moment he consciously made the decision to go back to the apartment, fear raced through his bones.   
  
He went back to his apartment a run.   
  
The Shane apartment was on the second floor. He leapt stairs like a bird; three at a time, moving at a dizzy pace. He was vaguely aware of a strange hissing sound coming from somewhere, and a sweet, cloying smell that he, in his state of near-blind panic, could not identify.   
  
He burst into the door of the apartment, chest heaving. Rickie looked up from his game (the snowboards were gone, replaced by people getting shot in a grisly orgy of destruction) in shock, and scrambled to turn off the television. Kenneth frowned. Rickie hadn't expected him for another forty-five minutes.   
  
He was clearly fine, though.   
  
"What's the matter, Ken?"   
  
"Don't call me Ken," Kenneth said absently. Something was tickling at the edges of his senses. It was like he could feel another person, a person who should not be there. Next door, but the apartment next door was currently vacant, and had been for three months. Why would he think there was someone next door?   
  
In Kenneth's mind's eye, a match fell.   
  
Kenneth moved.   
  
He was across the room in a streak, grabbing Rickie, leaping over the couch, tucking himself into a ball around his brother, and jumping, again, not for the door, but for the window. The window broke seconds before he got to it, but not from anything Kenneth did. Every window in the building shattered as one as a ball of fire engulfed the hallway and raced through the door into what had been, seconds before, the Shane's living room. It seemed to chase them out of the window as they fell.   
  
Kenneth twisted his body around, still holding tight to his brother. He twisted without knowing why he twisted, and his foot pushed off the hot brick of the building midfall. They sailed across the sidewalk, into the shrubbery surrounding the next building over. The bushes beneath their own window were on fire.   
  
As were their clothes. Panting, they beat the small, hungry flames off of one another's backs.   
  
"How did you know?" Rickie asked, his soot streaked face highlighting just how wide his eyes were.   
  
"Smelled the gas," Kenneth gasped. For it was true, he had smelled gas, as he'd run through the hallway. "One of the gas lines must have been broken."   
  
And that gave him comfort. Somehow it was the gas that had put him to sleep. The gas had tickled his subconscious, he decided, and given him that dream. He sent prayers to God, thanking Him for the warning, and checked the cars. There were four apartments per building. The cars that normally sat in front of his were missing. Kenneth sincerely hoped that meant there was nobody left in the building. He staggered out of the bushes, hearing sirens arrive.   
  
Rickie started to laugh.   
  
"What's funny?" Kenneth asked.   
  
"Well, I was just thinking for once I'm glad you're so anal about the laundry. All our clothes are safe!" Rickie pointed at the laundry room, which was still just fine.   
  
"All our clothes are safe," Kenneth agreed, cracking a grin, and hugging Rickie very tightly, shaking all over. A second later...one second...and he'd have lost his last remaining family member. Rickie hugged back very tightly, his laughter taking on the strained quality of someone who had a lump in his throat.   
  
** Author's Notes: ** You know all us Kenshin fans have to have our giggle about him and the laundry right? Right! ^_^   
  
Chibi Binasu-chan: Ok, impatient one, here you go! Another chapter!   
  
nannon: Arigato! 


	4. Invitation

4 

  
  


Katie 

  
  
And now, Gentle Reader, we must take our attention across town, for odd things were afoot at the Kamiya residence as well.   
  
The Kamiya residence was on the outskirts of town, an old, large farmhouse painted in green and on the very verge of seeming run down. Katie kept up what repairs she could afford, but those were not many, and often it came down to a choice between repairing roof leaks or putting a new coat of paint on the steadfast old home's exterior. Katie's grandparents had left the home to her when they'd died, and her parents, far away on the West Coast, were happy to let her have it.   
  
It was surrounded by trees and left back from the road, accessible through a narrow gravel driveway that most would miss if they did not know what they were looking for. The wind rushed through tree branches and cast dancing shadows across the porch and through the windows -- but this was a sight that Katie was perfectly accustomed to.   
  
She had settled in for the night. She was, in fact, stepping out of her shower and wrapping a towel around herself when she first spotted the prowler.   
  
The remoteness and natural privacy of her home meant that Katie didn't worry too much about whether or not her windows were covered. Nor did she often worry overmuch about things like prowlers and burglars. For all of her concern over Kenneth's nocturnal walks, it had never once occurred to Katie that her home was anything but safe.   
  
So she stood there, dripping, blinking, trying to process the idea of a quite unmistakable dark human shape looking into her window -- and then, swiftly, as if realizing he'd been seen, running on.   
  
That is when she got angry. She grabbed her robe off its bath hook and threw it around herself, tying the robe belt exactly as she tied her gi belt at the dojo. Then she slammed her feet into her fluffy white bunny slippers. This fellow was going to get what was coming to him!   
  
She stormed out into her bedroom. Her television was on, turned low, but on. Katie did not like to be alone, though she'd rarely admit it, and so often kept the television on just to hear the sound of someone else's voice. Now something _ else _ caught her attention and made her stop short. The something else, as you, my friends, might already have guessed, was the sight of Kenneth Shane's face on the 11:00 news. Now the only attention she gave to the prowler was to keep one ear open for the sound of anyone trying to get into the house. The other ear was directed towards the television, which she turned up.   
  
She listened to the report on Kenneth's house fire with growing horror. She filed away small facts (for example, she'd never known Kenneth had a brother), and made small, subtle connections (the odds that her first prowler ever showed up on the same night that Kenneth's apartment caught fire) while she ran an absent hand through her hair, shaking locks of it to help it dry out. The fire chief was adamant that it had been some form of arson.   
  
Katie grabbed a pair of sweat pants and slipped them on under her robe. Frowning, she did a quick circuit of the house to make sure the prowler had not come in without her hearing. Finding nobody, she returned to her living room, where she had placed the sakabato upon arriving home.   
  
She'd hung it on the mantle right beneath the Kamiya sword. The Kamiya sword was an actual katana, still deadly sharp. It had been the last sword wielded by any Kamiya. Kamiya Keisuke, the founder of their art, had killed with that sword during the Meiji Restoration even as he left his daughter, Kamiya Kaoru, to continue what he'd started: an art that brought out people's potential, an art that defended others, and most of all an art that strove never to kill. Killing sometimes happened anyway, once or twice, generally with the lower rank students who got into trouble and panicked. Any technique could be lethal if there were enough force behind it and it hit the right places. But in order to master Kamiya Ryu, as Katie had, one had to prove a mastery of one's own emotions as well.   
  
Her parents had given Katie the Kamiya sword when she'd come to the East Coast to claim her grandparent's home and start her own school. She could trace that blade's history in her sleep: she knew the names of the hands it, and the symbolic duty to continue and promote Kamiya Ryu, had passed through, for how long each person had held it, and what they had done while holding it.   
  
By contrast, the sakabato was a complete mystery. A mystery that seemed to bring trouble with it. Because of the reverse blade, the blade of the sakabato faced the blade of the Kamiya sword. They looked as if they were staring one another down, or perhaps dueling, or kissing. Someone had wanted Kenneth to have the sakabato, but she'd ended up with it instead. For a moment she considered taking it down and bringing it to a safe deposit box in the morning -- but the thought made her scowl. She'd taken that sakabato in, and it was going to stay, and that was that.   
  
Still, she had a prowler to go look for, and a drive back across town to make, because she was not about to let Kenneth and his baby brother live out of a hotel, even if they could afford to, which she doubted.   
  
She grabbed a heavy flashlight. She could have taken one of the swords -- but she still wasn't terribly comfortable with the idea of using a sword, even a reverse bladed one. It just wasn't something she specialized in -- she'd be better off with her hands, and perhaps the flashlight if she really needed a weapon.   
  
She made three circuits of the outer house before she decided the prowler was gone with no trace. She made two more circuits of all the rooms in the house, pulling open cabinets and closets and yanking back drapes, to make sure he hadn't slipped in while she was out looking for him. She found nothing.   
  
Katie exchanged her flashlight for her car keys, then. She took the swords off the mantle and wrapped them in one of her coats. They were the only things of real value in her home -- if it was just a burglar looking for something to steal she supposed she could always replace her television. It was a cheap television, pawnstore variety, and those were a dime a dozen. She locked the door.   
  
Then she put the swords in the back seat of the car and drove back off to Kenneth's house at speeds that should have gotten her arrested, save that night luck was with her. No traffic cop appeared to impede her.   
  
She got to his apartments. The fire trucks had gone, and the news crews, but it couldn't have been that long ago as it was only midnight and she'd spotted the report only half an hour before, live on FOX TV news. Now the burned out husk of a building where Kenneth had lived looked lonely: a depressed, sagging mass of wood turned charcoal. She was about to start tramping up and down the sidewalks to demand who might know where Kenneth had gone to when she spotted a flash of red hair through the window of the laundry room across the parking lot.   
  
She dashed over there to find Kenneth and his younger brother picking clothes off the floor and putting them into laundry bags.   
  
"I can't believe someone would throw our clothes on the floor even on the night of a fire," Kenneth was saying, sounding quite unhappy. "My book was on top of the dryer, too."   
  
"We'll dry them at the hotel," Rickie said with a shrug.   
  
"We'll wash them again too, we don't know what's on this floor, that we don't!"   
  
Katie rather suspected that Kenneth's ire came more from having his wash violated while losing his home than the actual floor (despite the fact that he had a point, because the laundry room floor did seem to carry more than its fair share of grime).   
  
"You can wash them at my house!" Katie said, beaming at them.   
  
The Shane brothers paused in the act of stuffing shirts into bags to stare at her. Katie slowly became aware of how she must have looked: damp, disheveled hair, pink bathrobe, black sweatpants, and bunny slippers. And...her bathrobe was hanging a little more open than was strictly decent. She yanked the ends of it back into place.   
  
Slowly, all three of the people in the laundry room began to develop fierce blushes. Abruptly, all three began to speak at once.   
  
"That is -- "   
  
"Miss Kamiya what are you --"   
  
"Are those _ bunny _ slippers?"   
  
"I thought maybe you could come to my house to stay!"   
  
"Well that's very kind of you, Miss -- I mean Katie -- but we wouldn't want to impose..."   
  
"What kind of karate master wears _ bunny slippers _ out in public?"   
  
"Oh its no trouble at all, I have plenty of room, a huge farmhouse and I'm all alone and I'd love for you to stay!"   
  
"Well if you're sure..."   
  
"And a pink bathrobe! In public!"   
  
Katie began to glower at the younger Shane. "Who are you, anyway, the President of Fashion? I saw the police and came right over, I was _ trying _ to be a good friend, you might be a little more polite, you know!"   
  
Kenneth held up both his hands and gave a hasty smile. "We'd be happy to stay with you, Mi -- Katie. It's a very generous offer, that it is. Please don't mind Ricky, he's had a rough night."   
  
"Well of course he has." Katie grumped. "Don't you boys worry, I'm going to find that arsonist and kick his butt!"   
  
If Katie noticed that both of the Shane brothers now seemed to be sweat dropping while their faces grew pinker and pinker, she gave no sign. She merely picked up the last of the plastic bags and gathered up their clothes for them. "And nobody will throw your clothes on the floor at my house. I wouldn't do that. I'd fold them. And I'd make sure they were dry. And it's normally perfectly very safe, though I did have some sort of pervert peeking Tom show up earlier tonight, looks like we've all had eventful nights, though mine is hardly on a level with having an arsonist burn down your home."   
  
And the sweat drops grew as she ushered them into her car, clothes and all.   
  
"Oh, watch out for that coat in the back seat," Katie told Rickie. "I didn't want that guy who was sneaking around my house stealing my swords so it's got those in there."   
  
"Cool!" Rickie said, and reached right for the bundle. A stern look from Kenneth stopped him in his tracks and he sighed, sat down, and buckled his seatbelt instead, uttering a loud, put-upon sigh.   
  
"Are you alright?" Kenneth asked Katie as he got into the shotgun seat. "It had to have been scary, having someone prowl around like that."   
  
"Scary? No, it wasn't scary, it was irritating." Katie declared, getting back into the driver's seat. "You had the scary night."   
  
"It was unpleasant," Kenneth agreed.   
  
Katie chattered happily on as they drove back to her home. Something just seemed right about the three of them together. She also wouldn't have to be alone any longer. In California her house had been full of younger brothers and sisters, several of whom had already found other states to land in to open their own schools and spread Kamiya Ryu. Still, whenever her parents called she told them she was doing just fine. She hadn't wanted to worry them.   
  
Kenneth seemed content to listen to her go on about guest rooms and extra blankets and how much closet space she had. Rickie mumbled something about a Play Station and then fell asleep in the back seat on the drive home.   
  
She turned into the gravel driveway and went up to the house. Then she frowned, stopping the car. She stopped talking, too, all at once as if someone had hit the breaks on her mouth.   
  
There were now three men waiting on her front porch, and she could see a gun in the hand of at least one of them.   
  
"What the hell is going on tonight?" Katie asked.   
  
Kenneth met her eyes. His own violet ones were brimming with worry and confusion. He had no more idea than she.   
  



	5. Battle of Souls

Kenneth  
  
Kenneth expected Katie to drive off as fast as she could. Instead her eyes narrowed. She spun the car around, pulling it parallel to the porch. "No you don't. This is MY house," she snarled.  
  
"Ricky! Duck!" Kenneth yelled. Ricky dived beneath the window. Kenneth ducked, himself. What was the madwoman thinking?  
  
A shot shattered the driver's side window. Katie ducked as she shoved the door open, getting showered with glass. She tumbled to the ground, rolled, and then leaped up the steps to catch one of their assailants in the face with a well-placed round kick. One down. Two to go.  
  
Ricky scrambled out of the other side of the car. Kenneth did the same. Grunts and shots from the porch. Only Katie's furious yell let him know she was still alive.  
  
"We've got to help her!" Rickie shouted, running around the side of the car. He yanked open the other back door and grabbed for the bundle of swords.  
  
"Rickie! No!" Kenneth ducked and ran around the side of the car, just in time to see one of the gunmen put his brother in their sites. Katie dived for the gunman and the shot went wild, but this left the second man who she'd been fighting time to act. He shot her.  
  
Kenneth heard himself scream something. There was blood everywhere and he couldn't tell where she'd been hit. In shock, Rickie dropped the swords. Kenneth shoved him into the bushes, out of the way, and grabbed them instead, shaking them free of their bundle.  
  
He grabbed the sakabato at first. A jolt ran through him. Time seemed to stop. The whole scene shifted, turned in a sickening pirouet. Like he didn't even know where he was. Who he was. It happened in less than a second.  
  
_It was not a good sword_. The voice was his own voice, though he recognized it from very far away. _Remember? It wasn't authentic._ The voice of Kenneth Shane, Irish accent and all. His lifeline. He listened to it.  
  
Kenneth dropped the useless reverse bladed sword and grabbed up the Kamiya sword. The feeling of disorientation suddenly snapped into place.  
  
He narrowed his eyes. He was able to process the gunmen's movements at a higher rate than before. He was feeling something from them. He saw the one Katie had thwarted raise his gun again, to shoot her in the face. He saw the second train his gun on him.  
  
"DO RYU SEN!" Kenneth shouted, striking the ground with his sword. The ground seemed to shake, knocking the two men off balance. He didn't wait to watch. He was in the air, the lightest leap he'd ever done, his loafers connecting with the porch in exactly the spot he wanted them to. And then, whispering: "Ryu San Sen!" Dragon's Nest Flash. He knew, what the Japanese meant, he who was Irish and couldn't speak a lick of it. He knew it was Japanese at all. His body moved of its own volition. The technique was meant for multiple opponents. The first went down in a spray of blood as the Kamiya sword took him in the throat. Kenneth spun. The final gunman was on one knee. Recovered. Shooting at him. Kenneth cut off his gun hand. Kenneth stabbed him through the heart.  
  
It was there that he came to himself, his sword still in the man, his legs and body caught in a forward thrust front stance he'd never taken in his life, sweat pouring down his brow, his chest heaving from exertion his body was not used to. He stared into the dying man's eyes, his own wide.  
  
"Your...eyes..." the man said. It was the last thing he said before he died.  
  
Rickie was staring at him, mouth open, shaking. Katie was blinking at him. She'd been shot, he saw now, in the hip. Another few inches and it would have been something vital. She staggered to her feet, her hand clapped to the wound. In a voice thick with pain, she said: "I thought you hated violence. I didn't know you knew how to do that."  
  
_Neither did I!_ Kenneth thought in a panic. It was what he wanted to say. Instead he looked over at Rickie, and said, "You can start training at Miss Kamiya's dojo starting tomorrow, that you can." The words confused him, because the timing seemed off. He had to have a different sword when he said those words, didn't he? The war couldn't be over yet because he was soaked in blood. He could smell it in his nostrils, driving him crazy, like a horse when a horse got blood in his nostrils...  
  
Kenneth let go of the hilt of the blade without pulling it free of the dead man's chest, and fell to the ground with a heavy thunk, lost in the blessed peace of unconsciousness.  
  
**Author's Notes:** Gomen!! This fight scene was hard to write. I wrote several versions, making each way too complicated, and finally came up with this one in a burst of inspiration this morning. This one, I liked. Thank you to everyone who has been reading, reviewing, and staying patient!


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